“There used to be six of us . . . Now I am alone.”
Five pair of various colored eyes turned around and looked at me. Their brows were creased.
“What are you talking about?” the book loving wizard asked. “We’re about to be rich!”
I shook my head and didn’t respond.
“We have just liberated a cultist infected castle,” the beast of a barbarian spoke up. “We deserved to get paid.”
His smaller companion, only four feet in height nodded in agreement. “When you hired us, you said we could keep what we found.”
They were mercenaries after all. I wasn’t surprised not really. Sure, I liked loot too but if this was anything like the other chest, we were probably going to get our faces melted off like the lightning strucked sorcerer.
You would think he learned his lesson but no, he was up there along with the others staring at the red wardrobed.
It leaned against a dark wall. Beside it was a desk with documents spread all across it. The dwarf was there. Shifting through the parchment, trying to find any clues as to where the leaders of the cultists had gone.
“Good luck,” I told them.
“Then you get no loot,” the wizard piped up.
“You guys ready?” the small roguish mercenary asked.
She stepped forward, theives tools in hand. As she did, I walked out of the room. I pressed my back against the wall. There was no way I was going to get caught in the trap.
I heard the wardrobe open and a hiss. Cries of pain and shock echoed from the room. I waited for a few moments before peeking into the room. Acid bubbled and hissed across the ground. My companions laid on the ground, moaning in agony. The smell of burnt flesh wafted through the room.
Whatever the wardrobe held at one point was gone. It now stood as a blob of melted wood. I squatted down by the doorway.
“So,” I said, “who needs healing?”
Groan answered me.
Dabbling in the Art of Writing 